


No Phones Allowed

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry George, M/M, anti-technology rant, everyone's tired of Luz's bitching, guys in bars, mostly LuzToye but the whole gang is here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 20:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12516376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: George Luz is goddamn sick of technology.OR: As Joe Toye says, "Technology and phones and shit. I don't get it. Facebook fucking sucks, and half the people you meet on Grindr and shit are either fucking psychos or losers. And I don't really Instagram, so..."





	No Phones Allowed

**Author's Note:**

> No disrespect is meant to the real heroes of Easy Company! 
> 
> Apologies for the lack of beta'ing. I'm lazy, y'all. 
> 
> Enjoy, folks.

George Luz was goddamn sick of technology. Specifically, smartphones and social media. George was a big personality kinda guy—total fuckin' extrovert, classic life of the party attention-seeker. But here lately, it seemed that anytime George and his friends hung out, every single one of those jackasses had their noses buried in their damn phones at one point or another.

It didn't matter if they were seeing a movie, grabbing a bite to eat, or slinging shots at Nixon's bar. Without fail, all of his douchebag friends would inevitably whip out their phones to check Facebook or chat up a girl on Tinder. And it drove George up a fucking wall.

"I'm just sayin', Frank. You check your phone first thing in the morning and at night before you go to bed. You take it into the bathroom with you-"

"I do not take my phone to the john." Frank cut off his best friend mid-rant with a stern declaration.

George shot the shorter man a droll stare. "You know what I mean, Frank. 'You' as in 'the collective.' As in 'people.' _Look_ , my point is, people are fucking addicted to their phones and shit. We're on them constantly, all damn day, and all I ask is that for the two or three hours that we all get together, we just keep our fucking phones put away. Is that so much to ask?"

"Is he still bitching about Tab texting that girl?" asked Johnny Martin as he dropped onto the bar stool next to George. "Christ, Luz, get over it."

"Its the principle of the matter, man." George rolled his eyes and waved the bartender over for another whiskey. "When you're hanging with someone and you pull out your phone, its like you're saying whatever's on your phone is more important or interesting than they are. And that's bullshit, man."

Frank shrugged when Johnny shot him a 'Can You Believe This, Guy?' look. "I hate to admit it, because its only going to encourage him-"

"Then don't," Johnny quipped.

"-but he's got a point. It is kind of rude."

"Oh!" George whooped in victory, slapping his palms down on the bar top. "Thank you, Perco! See?"

Johnny muttered in opposition, but conceded, nonetheless. "Whatever, man. I still think you're overreacting."

Before George could muster a counter argument, Bill Guarnere suddenly appeared. The dashing Philadelphia native slung his arms around George and Frank, shaking them enthusiastically. "C'mon, fellas. Those yuppies from Buck's firm are here. Time to hustle a game of pool or two. Aye, you too, Martin. Let's go."

Finishing his shot, George muttered one last word about the phones matter—to which Johnny and Frank casually rolled their eyes—before he slunk off to a crowded corner of the bar with his friends, his pockets eagerly waiting to be lined with spoils of Buck Compton's well-to-do coworkers.

* * *

Two weeks later, George, Malarkey, and Penkala were grabbing take-out at their favorite Thai place after work one evening when a couple of hipster twenty-somethings traipsed inside. Being the loud shitheads that they were, the guys couldn't help but overhear their conversation.

_"_ _Check out this sick photo we took. I'm telling you, this was the most photogenic waterfall I've ever seen. Bryce went through two reels of film on his Polaroid at this one spot, not to mention the other four 'falls on the trail. We must've stayed there taking photos for two hours," said Hipster #1._

_"That's fucking awesome," said Hipster #2.”You're going to get_ so _many 'likes'.”_

George felt his insides shrivel up. Face scrunching in disgust, he took a deep breath of frustration and ignored Malark's sigh as the redhead muttered, "Here we go again."

George whipped around to face Malark and Penk. "-and that's another thing. Fucking Instagram. People can't even enjoy themselves anymore. Go to a concert, go to Niagara Falls, whatever—you can't enjoy it 'cause you've gotta fucking document the whole goddamn experience for social media or it's like it never even happened. I mean, if you don't check in, how do we really know you were there? Fucking _please_."

For nearly two months, George's constant bitching and moaning about the ills of modern technology continued, and not one of his friends seemed to give a shit. Then, one night he was over at Bill's place with a few of the guys—and it was like the combined weight of the Apple and Google empires crashed down upon him. With a devastating resignation, George just sighed and rubbed his face like the old man that his friends felt he was surely becoming.

"I don't know, man." George said to no one in particular. He took a slow sip of his beer and considered the bottle thoughtfully. "Sometimes I just wanna get in my car and drive out into the middle of the desert away from it all."

"You know, you're right, George," Babe Heffron nodded with false sincerity. "Having GoogleMaps and Yelp and Uber really has made my life shittier. Screw technology—I'm with you, brother."

"Fuck off, Heffron," George muttered as the guys had their laugh, Ralph Spina clapping Babe on the back while Bill and Buck chuckled at George's expense.

It wasn't until later that evening when most of the guys were caught up in a poker game that Joe Toye settled himself on the couch beside George. He offered George a fresh drink and a tube of Pringles, both of which George accepted gratefully. A beat passed before Joe shrugged. "I know what you mean."

"Huh?"

"'Bout...technology and phones and shit. I don't get it. Facebook fucking sucks, and half the people you meet on Grindr and shit are either fucking psychos or losers. And I don't really Instagram, so..."

George looked at Joe like it was Christmas Eve and Joe was Santa Claus. "Thanks, Joe," he said earnestly, his words coming out a little breathless at the sheer shock of someone— _someone!—_ finally fucking sympathizing with him.

"Whatever." Joe took a swallow of beer, and his silence encouraged George to continue chatting softly, calmly about running away from society and its fancy gadgets and gizmos. "I mean, real _Call of the Wild_ stuff, ya know? Hit the road and get back to nature—and way the hell away from social media and Google Apps."

Joe nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. Ya know, when I was a kid, my old man would take me and my brother on these little camping trips. We'd pack up the car and drive a few hours to this lake, spend the whole week fishing and making camp fires."

"Exactly!" George exclaimed. "An old fashioned road trip. That's it, man."

Joe smirked. "Yeah, we used to love it. My dad would tell me and Tommy stories about Desert Storm and my grandpa in 'Nam... We had a great time."

George's eager expression softened. He smiled at his friend. "That sounds real nice, Joe."

Joe met George's gaze as the corners of Joe's mouth lifted up just so in the tiniest of smiles. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “It was.”

* * *

Some time passed and life among the technologically hyperactive continued for George. One evening, Johnny Martin and Bull Randleman corralled the gang for a night on the town. And honestly, George was over that shit.

"I've already told you, Frank,” George muttered into the phone clutched between his cheek and shoulder as he held open the freezer door and reached in for the beer he had just chilled. “I'm not going. Everyone's going to be on their phones playing Farmville or some shit, so what's the point?”

“Farmville? Luz, buddy, nobody plays that anymore, okay? That's like, two years ago,” Frank explained before the sound of some serious jostling took over the line, and suddenly Floyd Talbert was on the other end. “Luz, you've gotta come out, man. Its not the same without you.”

While George would have normally broken at the sound of Tab's earnest pleading, George was frankly all out of fucks to give. He was sick of his friends being dicks with their phones, and he wasn't going to put up with the shit any longer. He hoped that by refusing to go out, his friends would realize that he wasn't kidding about all this—he was serious, damnit.

“Not tonight, Tab,” he sighed. Shuffling the phone, he popped the top on his beer and took his cell in hand. “I'll see ya at work tomorrow, alright? Bye, buddy.”

Alone in his apartment, he dropped down onto the couch and started up Netflix. He sipped from his beer as he scrolled through shows and films, eventually deciding on some Tom Hanks movie about World War II. Thirty minutes into the movie, his phone buzzed.

The texts started coming in all at once.

Malarkey, Muck, Bill... The guys, it seemed, were _not_ pleased with George's absence at the bar. But George merely shoved his phone down between the couch cushions and continued to watch a bunch of dudes in army khaki and olive green kill some Nazis.

* * *

At a quarter 'til ten o'clock, someone knocked on his door.

George half-thought it might be Frank or Tab trying one last time to rally him to the bar. Certainly, the last person he expected to see standing on his doormat was Joe Toye.

“Hiya, Georgie,” Joe spoke, quietly, intimately. He gave a little grin, the kind that seemed, somehow, to told a secret. A silent moment passed while George contemplated that grin and those lips, prompting the taller man to lean forward, raising his eyebrows slightly, and ask, “You gonna let me in, George?”

“What are you doing here, Joe?” George was proud of the fact that he refrained from mentioning how good Joe looked in those too-tight black jeans, or how well his leather jacket settled across his shoulders. He was especially happy that he had the self-control not to reach up and brush his fingertips across the slightly-gelled ends of Joe's hair, which was haloed by the streetlamp down the block in some delicious irony—because George knew all too well that Joe was no saint.

Joe shrugged, casually. “Heard you weren't coming out tonight. Thought I could change your mind.”

“S'at so?”

Joe's little grin spread slowly into a full-blown smile. “Yeah,” he declared, firmly. “C'mon, George. Let's grab a drink.”

George sighed. “Not tonight, Joe. Maybe next weekend.”

Reaching out, Joe tugged playfully on the hem of George's tee-shirt. When he spoke, his voice was soft and low, gravelly in a way that was somehow endearing and sexy all at once. “Just one drink, George. If you aren't having a good time, we'll blow those other guys off and head out just me and you, okay?”

Though still reluctant to the idea of going out, George felt his willpower dwindling under the impressive, pouty stare of his attractive friend. It felt nice to be wanted, to know that his presence was missed—especially by somebody like Toye. If Joe kept this act up, George wouldn't be able to refuse much longer.

Seeing the cracks forming in George's resolve, Joe stepped closer. He braced his hands on either side of the door frame, crowding George on his front stoop, and went in for the kill shot. “Come out with us, Georgie, and I promise I'll make it worth your wile,” Joe positively purred with a smirk that was both seductive and dangerous.

Much to Joe's surprise, however, George only raised a brow and quipped, sarcastically, “Careful, Joe, keep saying things like that and people are going to mistake you for a male stripper again.”

Joe's expression fell instantly. He fixed Luz with a scowl and muttered, “That was _one_ time, man.” His voice dropped into a growl, “Let it go, okay?” before he sighed and seemed to recall that he was trying to convince George to go out with them, not trying to fight with him. Gritting his teeth and balling his fists at his sides, Joe forced himself to remain calm as he backed out of George's personal space. “George... _please_?”

In true Luz-fashion, George sighed dramatically, his entire body drooping as if exhausted by the very idea of putting on a clean shirt and leaving the comfort of his couch. “Oh, Jesus Christ, _fine_ , Joe, okay?” He stepped back into his apartment, leaving the door wide open for Joe, and called, “Just let me get dressed,” as he disappeared into his bedroom.

Roughly half an hour later, the pair arrived at Nixon's bar, the 506th. Two steps in the door, Joe nudged George with his elbow. “The guys are over there-” He vaguely gestured the row of booths that lined the back wall. “I'll get us some drinks, alright? Whatta ya want?”

George made his way through the crowd—the place was pretty packed for a Thursday night—and what he saw when he got to the booth made him stop short.

There were all of his buddies—George's best friends, Frank and Tab; the Philly boys, Bill, Julian, Spina, and Babe; the Southern gentlemen, Gene and Smokey; the three amigos, Muck, Penk, and Malarkey; and, of course, Bull and Johnny, who'd organized this whole thing in the first place. And not a single damn one of them had his phone out!

His friends were talking—loudly—and drinking—heavily, by the looks of those empty shot glasses. Arms were wrapped around shoulders, hands clapped or slapped the table as a particularly good joke or point was made, and laughs sounded boisterously over the ruckus of the busy bar. The atmosphere circling the table was lively and animated and perfect. It was just like old times, like their college days back when most of them still had flip phones and the closest thing to Candy Crush was the old Nokia Snake game.

“What the fuck is happening here?” George demanded, his voice spiked with a surprised anger.

“Aye, Luz, ya made it!” Bill shouted as a few of the fellas noticed George's arrival. A few cheers went up—somebody snickering, “Told ya Toye could get him out,”—and then Joe was there with the drinks.

“Seriously,” George repeated, refusing to sit down until somebody explained just what the hell was going on. “Who are you people? Where are my friends, and more importantly, where are their phones?”

That's when George noticed the green and black bucket in the center of the table. He gazed at the bucket wearily, brow furrowing and eyes narrowing when Smokey Gordon gave a cheesy grin and wiggled his fingers at the it. Snatching it up, George peered inside and his suspicions were confirmed: their phones were in the bucket. “What the actual fuck?”

It was Joe who answered with a nonchalant, “I saw this thing online.”

See, Joe saw this thing online, and he thought about George's anti-technology problem, so he brought a stupid Halloween trick-or-treat bucket to the bar and stuck everyone's phones in it and plopped it down on the table. And their friends were totally okay with it because the whole thing was a game—damn if their friends didn't love competitions, especially when money was involved. The way it goes, the first asshole to reach for his phone had to pay for everyone's drinks, so no one fucking wanted to touch it, and without phones to distract them, the gang was all talking and drinking and the whole affair was loud and energized and perfect.

As Joe explained the rules, George's face gradually morphed into an expression of sheer adoration. He peered up at Joe like the man was an angel and pointedly told him, big dumb grin and all, “Joe, I could kiss you right now.”

Joe just sorta laughed and said, “Maybe later, Luz.” And George thought, _Oh, definitely, later_.

“How'd you get everybody to agree?” George asked Joe later that evening, three drinks in, snug in a booth between Toye and Skip Muck.

Joe took a swallow of beer. “It wasn't that hard actually. Everybody liked the idea of getting free drinks for the night. Plus, its like a game or a bet, ya know? To see who can go the longest without their phones. Between that and the fact that everyone's tired of hearing you bitch...” He made a vague, sorta 'here we are' gesture.

George looked up at Joe through thick eyelashes. “Thanks, Joe,” he said, the words heavy with sincerity and affection. Joe only looped an arm around George and gave his side a squeeze, “Anytime, Georgie.”

George broke out into a massive grin. “Alright, enough of this.” He shouted for a passing barmaid and addressed their friends. “Aye, fellas! Three shots up-!”

Their collective voices raised above the bar crowd. “-three shots down!”

 

 


End file.
